Flame Tree Road. Shona Patel
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a boatman’s song and went into the kitchen to return his cup. He must have said something funny because Mother replied with a laugh—the girlish laugh she reserved especially for him. His parents had their own little secrets, Biren suspected. Where did they run off to in the middle of the night? And why was there sand on their bed in the morning?
Shamol emerged from the kitchen. “Is anybody going to help me plant the marigolds?” he asked.
“I want to play with marbles,” said Nitin. “Dada, play marbles with me.”
“You play with the cat,” said Biren in an imperious voice.
“I don’t want to play with the cat,” Nitin pouted.
“Come along, then, wear your slippers,” said Shamol, heading toward the woodshed. The two boys ran to catch up with him.
Shamol dug up the rich black soil, Biren broke up the clumps and placed them in the terra-cotta pot and Nitin sat on his haunches and handed Biren the seedlings one by one.
“Careful, mia, you are pulling them up too roughly,” Shamol said. He took the seedling from Nitin’s hand and pointed to the roots. “See these small white hairs? If you break them, the plant will die. Use a stick and pull out the seedling very gently, like this, see?”
“Father, if you could be a tree—any tree in the world—what tree would you be?” Biren asked suddenly.
Shamol leaned on the worn-out handle of the shovel. “What tree would I like to be, now? What an interesting question. I will have to think about it.”
He went back to digging, then stopped. “I know what tree I want to be. I want to be a bamboo, although technically it is not a tree. It belongs to the grass family. Does that count?”
Biren frowned. “I suppose so.” He was disappointed in his father’s choice. He had expected him to pick something more significant like, say, a mango tree or a banyan, even a papaya tree. But bamboo? Father must be joking.
“But why bamboo, Father? It’s so...so ordinary.”
“Your father is an ordinary man, son. But why a bamboo, I will tell you. A bamboo is strong and resilient. It has many uses. You can build a house with it, you can make a raft and float down a river with it. You can eat it as a shoot, and drink out of it as a cup. Most important, the bamboo is hollow and empty inside. If a person can be hollow and empty like the bamboo, all the goodness and wisdom of the universe will flow through him.”
Biren was still not impressed. He did not want to be a bamboo. He saw himself as a magnificent and glorious flame tree, admired by all from near and far. He told his father that.
“The flame tree is an inspiring tree,” Shamol conceded. “It gives cooling shade and when it blooms it brings joy to all. But also know this. When the flame tree sheds, it loses everything. You see this in life, mia. Sometimes a person has to lose everything to renew and bloom again.”
Biren twirled a marigold seedling between his fingers. “Why is there only one flame tree, Baba? I have not seen any other flame trees around here.”
“Because it is an unusual tree for these parts. The natural habitat of the flame tree is in tiger country, hundreds of miles away.”
Shamol smiled at Nitin, who was frowning at the ground. “So what do you think, Nitin? What tree would you like to be? Dada wants to be a flame tree and I want to be a bamboo.”
“I...I...” Nitin faltered. He looked distressed, like he had been given a difficult piece of homework.
“Don’t worry,” Shamol said kindly. “You don’t have to be a tree. You can be anything you want.”
“I want to be an ant tree!” Nitin blurted out.
Shamol twitched his lips. “An ant tree!” he repeated. He leaned on his shovel and studied the round, earnest face of his younger son. “How marvelous! But tell me, mia, is it a tree where ants live or a tree that grows ants? I am curious to know.”
Nitin brightened. “An ant tree is a tree that grows ants and when...when...the ants get ripe they all fall down...and...when they all fall down they all play together and go to school!”
“Is that so?” Shamol’s eyes widened. “Be sure to warn me, mia, if you ever see an ant tree. I would be very much afraid to walk under one, with all the ripe ants falling on my head.”
Biren rolled his eyes at their silly talk. He tried to give Shamol a knowing look to say, Nitin is such a baby, but Shamol’s face was deadpan as he struck his shovel into the ground and continued to dig.
The schoolmaster told Biren to see him in his office. When Biren stood in front of his desk, he handed the boy a folded note.
“Give this to your father,” he said, without looking up. “And don’t forget to bring back the answer tomorrow.”
Biren looked at the schoolmaster nervously. This was the first time he had written a note to his father—for that matter, to anybody’s father. Disciplinary measures were taken care of in school with no interference from parents, except, of course, in Samir’s case. Even that was most unusual. Most parents could not read or write anyway. Biren’s father, who had attended college in Dhaka, was the most educated man in the village, even more educated than the schoolmaster himself. To send Biren home with a handwritten note for his father and expect an answer the following day was all very odd. Biren wondered what the note was about.
“Did I do something wrong, Mastermoshai?” he said anxiously. “Please do not report me to my father.”
The weasel-faced schoolmaster looked mildly amused. “Why, mia? Do you have something to confess?”
Biren shook his head. He looked so worried the schoolmaster felt sorry for him.
“This is another matter,” he said shortly. “It has nothing to do with you. Run along now and remember to bring back the answer from your father tomorrow. This is urgent.”
* * *
Biren hopped from one foot to the other as he waited for Father to come home. He desperately wanted to go and meet his boat at the riverbank, but it was too far for Nitin to walk, so Biren had to be content to wait at their usual place down the road. Father was running late. Biren walked up and down while Nitin squatted by the side of the road and pushed ants around with a stick.
“One ant has died, Dada,” Nitin lamented with a woebegone face. “Shall we bury it?” Biren ignored him and gave a small shout when he saw his father turn the corner of the bamboo grove. Now he could see why his father was running late. Shamol held a big bunch of pink and white lilies, the stems wrapped in the pages of an old ledger and tied with a piece of jute string.
“A present for your lovely mother,” Shamol said. “I asked the boatman to stop at the backwaters today. Every day I pass these beautiful lilies and I always forget to bring a small knife to cut the stems. Today I made the boatman do a detour and take me there.”
Biren was not interested in the lilies. “Baba, Mastermoshai sent an urgent note for you. Here it is.” Biren waved the note under his father’s nose. “He said you must read it at once. He needs an answer by tomorrow.”
Shamol glanced briefly at the note. “I see,” he said vaguely. “Hold on to it. I will read it after my tea.”
Biren pulled at his shirtsleeve. “But this is most urgent, Baba. You have to read it now!”
Shamol gave him an amused look. “Is anything going to change between now and